Waiting
by TruffleWings
Summary: Godot's thoughts and feelings as he awaits execution. Contains quite a few snippets of flashbacks. Other characters include Mia, Phoenix, Maya, Pearl and Dahlia. Light Miego. Oneshot.


A/N Yet another angst story, this time featuring Godot, everyone's favorite (or one of their favorite) prosecutor! I have mixed feelings about this fic, because the quality of writing and ideas in this piece was highly varied—in some instances I was pretty happy, but in others, not so much. This has less description and impressive sentences than my previous oneshot, **The Truth**, but more action and interesting dialogue. I haven't played T&T in a while, so I hope it's accurate.

_Mia…_

Only one person occupied his thoughts every minute, every second of the day. His protégé, if you may. Dead.

Of course, she was more than just his apprentice.

Mia Fey was the woman who had changed his life—her fiery determination, her single-minded searching out for the truth. Everything about her drew him.

It wasn't just her major traits; all the little things about her featured highly in his thoughts. Brushing her hair from her face with a sweep of her elegant hands, the way she bit her lip as if hoping to swallow back the words she said, the precious blushes she gave out sparingly.

It hurt to think about her. Yet, paradoxically, if he didn't, he knew he couldn't survive.

Everything about him had changed the day he woke to the scent of coffee. A change of jobs, a change of clothes, a change of appearance. There were only two things that remained constant: his love for coffee. And his love for Mia.

Now inhaling the dark fragrance of the beloved drink, he remembered, with a smile, the look on Mia's face when she had tasted some of his special blend #69.

"_I really want to know what all your fuss about coffee is all about." She wore an amused and sincerely puzzled expression on her face._

_He smiled and raised the steaming mug to her, watching as she recoiled slightly from the strong scent. "Blacker than the vengeful heart, hotter and more bitter than a failed romance… that is coffee. Maybe you'd like to try some, kitten."_

_Mia considered it, pursing her lips, her gaze drawn to the heavenly beverage. "Maybe."_

_Diego grinned and handed her the mug. "Here you go."_

_She eyed it apprehensively, gulped, and took a miniscule sip from the cup._

"_You won't even be able to taste i—" He stopped as she hastily thrust the mug back into his hands and panted heavily. Eyes wide, she sucked in air like a drowning man who had broken to the surface of the waves, desperately trying to rid himself of the water in his lungs._

_Alarmed, he set the mug down on the table and rushed towards her. "I-I'm fine! It's just… so bitter! How can you stand it?" she gasped, finally regaining some of her breath and composure. Diego laughed at her reaction, but stifled it immediately as she shot a glare towards him. A rare blush, or it might have been a flush of anger, covered her cheeks. Pleased, he sidled closer to her and said cheekily, "Perhaps you need some help riding yourself of the taste."_

Godot was hit by a pang of longing as he recalled the incident. Every memory with her was etched into his mind with perfect clarity, like script carved into ancient bamboo. His heart pounded painfully as though trying to break free, to head into the yonder to join with her own. It was only when he thought of Mia that such a reaction would be forced from him—which was all the time.

He never tried to force her from his mind; he couldn't even if he wanted to. It would be an insult to her memory if he tried to forget her anyway. Godot blinked back the tears in his eyes, wincing slightly as they stung his wound. The doctors had dressed it carefully and tried to make it as painless as they could, but the wound was pretty bad. It had been taken off after a week, though—still, he reflected, it wouldn't even matter, not where he was going. But it was with sympathy that they attempted to make his last days as comfortable as they could.

Godot sat in his cell, sipping his coffee and couldn't help but recall the day that he, in the heat of rage, had gone straight to the penitentiary to confront…_ him._

"_S-sentenced to li-life-imprisonment," the doctor stammered. A mug of coffee lay smashed on the ground, the dark liquid spilling onto the floor. "Please, j-just calm down, Mr Armando!"_

_The cause of the broken coffee mug, a snowy-haired man who was neither Godot nor Diego Armando, did not calm down. "Why?!" he shouted. "Why did he kill her?!"_

"_I don't know all the details—just, p-please get back into bed!" the unfortunate man quavered, clearly fearing the furious Latino in front of him._

"_He deserves more! Nothing is bad enough for him!" the former defense attorney muttered heatedly. "What other details are there?" he demanded._

"_I-I don't know much, only that the body was d-discovered by her s-sister and h-her p-protégé." The doctor backed away and pressed the call button. It wouldn't summon anyone anytime soon, though—most of the staff was at the party, and the ones who were here were all taking care of an emergency case._

"_Protégé?" The masked man hesitated, a brief respite in his fit of anger._

"_Y-yes!" the doctor said, eager to placate the fury in the patient. "Phoenix Wright, I think! He was the attorney in the case against Maya Fey!"_

"_Maya… Mia's sister." _Her_ name slid itself round the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat._

"_Yes! Yes, that was her sister! Accused of murdering Mia!" Though the doctor did not notice, the grieved man had stiffened at the sound of her name._

"_Phoenix Wright," he growled. He had been there at the crime scene. Had discovered the body. The soon-to-be prosecutor knew Maya didn't live with Mia—only the Wright boy had been there for her. And he had failed. Failed to protect her—to protect Mia, the one thing in the Latino man's life that had been worth waking for._

"_A-and the murderer w-was Redd White. Of Bluecorp," the doctor volunteered, keen to calm the man further. It had the opposite effect._

_With a constricted feeling in his chest, as though his heart was fit to burst, the tall patient ran out of the room with perhaps a wordless roar. The hospitalized man didn't know if the rushing and pounding in his ears was just his imagination, or the world was actually breaking apart into pieces, sawn away by that man. _Redd White. _And as he tore the world apart, Phoenix Wright had stood by as Diego slumbered on._

_The prison was just two stops away from the hospital. As he trampled off the bus, unheeding of the relieved sighs as he did, he sprinted to the prison with a vengeance. He smashed through the door, and in a small, small corner of his mind, marveled at the clarity of his mask. Nothing on real vision, but enough. _

"_Redd White," he growled to the security guard. "Now."_

"_Authorization, sir?" asked the terrorized man who had more backbone than the doctor, but was still a shivering blob of anxiety inside of him._

_The dark man cursed, and patted his pockets. A long-forgotten, dusty attorney's badge was presented to the guard and he was quickly let through. His formidable anger added to his intimidating appearance, looming with three strips of red lights glaring out at the world._

"_Cell #319. I will accompany you there." The guard walked briskly to the end of the line of cells. "You have five minutes."_

_The white-haired man stomped his way into the cell impatiently. Inside sat a strange American with dirty pink hair, and a set of perfect teeth. He had an aura of forgotten majesty and looked rather pathetic with a few strands of bubblegum hair limp over his face. A strained smile was stretched across his face as his rather blank eyes twinkled dully. An obvious tried_ _man who once had everything—then lost it. Diego had known Redd White, or at least heard of him. Mia must have been digging up things White would have preferred to be left behind. And so Godot would harbor a hatred more powerful than anything he had ever known to this very convict._

An all-consuming inferno of detest swept over Godot as he recalled the odious man. The conversation he had with him was one-sided: heated shouts from the Latino, and defeated, dead answers from the other. It didn't much help to relieve his anger, so he had first attempted to drown it in coffee. After thinking about the case for days, he'd finally realized that it wasn't just White—it was Wright. Responsible for what happened to Mia.

Godot's eyes were filled with tears. Under his mask, away from public eye, he had often been containing the salty sadness that threatened to spill out—but when it did, it usually caught in the mask. His sorrow was contained within the confines of Godot.

Wright, Wright, Wright. Phoenix Wright. His loathing for him had died with his final trial, but he still could remember the ill feelings he had once harbored to the attorney.

"_Trite." Godot nodded as the trial ended, a sardonic smile twisting his lips._

"_Good trial, Prosecutor… Godot." Wright always had the sort of in-your-face look that Godot detested. How could Mia possibly have taken him on? He won trials by luck and foolish blundering, somehow managing to worm his way out of the tight spots. If there was one thing Mia had managed to teach Wright, however, it perhaps was an unyielding determination. _You owe that to Mia, Trite. Remember that.

"_Why…?" Wright began._

"_Why, what?" Godot eyed him with detest, but the mask hid his hateful eyes. Only a sarcastic smile touched his lips._

"…" _Wright hesitated. _

"_Coffee spells out its flavor, strong and true. Bitter with no doubt in mind," Godot said. Wright was a forthright, rude individual. He should have voiced his thoughts by now. Godot soon grew annoyed with the waiting._

"_What is it, Nick?" Maya asked. A cheerful girl. Godot was always more polite to Wright when she was around. He had met her several times before, back when he was Diego, but it appeared that she did not remember enough to identify him now. Good._

"_Just… who are you really, Prosecutor Godot?" Trite finally asked. _

_Hm. Looked like someone had done their research. Some of it, anyway. "Ha…!" He took a gulp of coffee. Blend #43. A ridiculously simple answer for an idiotic question—it must have been obvious, even to Wright that he was not planning on divulging his secret._

"_Look, Godot isn't your real name, obviously," Wright said impatiently, annoyed at the one-syllable response. _

"_Does it matter?" the Latino asked. "No matter how you number the blends, the coffee will always taste the same. Blacker than a moonless night, hotter and more bitter than the depths of Hell itself."_

_Maya's eyes flickered._

_Godot grew uneasy with her reaction. Did she remember? Possibly she would try to stop him from badgering 'Nick'. She had grown quite attached to him as his assistant._

_But it appeared that the brief shot of remembrance had detached itself from the girl; she remained as cheerful as ever, hardly marred by the tense atmosphere thick with animosity. She said nothing to the spiky-haired attorney. Oblivious to Godot's focus on Maya as well as Maya's brief recollection, Wright had the usual dumbstruck look he had in court, though without the waste of perfectly good coffee. It was wondrous how Trite manage to get on Godot's nerves so easily that a good mug of well-blended coffee could be thrown and wasted._

"_I suppose so," he said though it was clear he had not understood a word Godot had uttered._

Godot took another gulp of the bitter coffee, the first he had tasted in months. Prison had it's own ready-made packets, easily obtained, especially because the wardens were highly eager to please him, angry at the guilty verdict as well as the sentence. He had the drink everyday, technically. But only if you could call that tasteless mud coffee.

The mug from which he was drinking was old and worn, holding memories of his own. Unfortunately, not as many memories of Mia as he would have liked it—_that_ mug had broken, in another life.

_The day he had broken his precious coffee mug he had had for years was the day Mia cracked._

_Terry Fawles had died._

_Armando felt anger bubbling up in the acidic pits of his stomach as he strode out of the courtroom, clutching his bleeding hand—it was a mere annoyance, though he wished he hadn't broken the old mug he had kept for a long, long time._

_He heard light, uneven footsteps tailing him as he strode forward. Finally unable to resist, he turned around, planning to force a smile or at least a smirk out of himself but found his lips already curling up at the sight of the brown-haired beauty._

_And so it was with a genuine smile on his face that he hugged her, clutching her slim figure close to him._

"_Mr Armando…!" Mia Fey said in shock. Then, almost unknowingly to herself, a tear escaped and slid down her cheek. In no time at all, her shoulders were shaking as she tightened her grip around him, clinging onto the man desperately for comfort._

_Tears Diego had been containing since the end of the trial threatened to spill out, but he forced himself to stay strong. "Kitten, don't cry." With a Herculean effort, he pushed her gently away and looked straight into her eyes. "A lawyer never cries until it's all over. That's one of my rules."_

"_B-but it is over!" Mia said, looking at the floor beside her in grief. "It's all over! I didn't manage to stop it… he's d-dead. He believed in me, and I believed in him, and then I couldn't do anything to—"_

"_No," he cut across her, resisting the urge to silence her rant in an entirely different and inappropriate way. For now, in any case. "It's not over. We can still fix this. Fawles may have fallen—but Dahlia Hawthorne has yet to be convicted. And I have a feeling we'll be hearing more from her."_

_Mia stared at him in silence, tear tracks crisscrossing her face. "The better the coffee, the more bitter it is, eh?" she said sarcastically in a less-than-steady tone of voice._

_Diego didn't say anything for a moment. "Spilled coffee can never be regained," he said slowly. "But the mug can still be filled."_

_Mia smiled unsteadily. "So you're saying there's no use crying over spilt milk. And we should just pick up the pieces and continue from here."_

_Diego took a long look her. "You must. This is far from over, I can promise you that, kitten."_

_She looked away under his intense gaze and her sight fell upon his injured and untended hand. "That… from the trial! You didn't get anyone to treat it!"_

"_This? This is nothing. Just a slight injury." His statement didn't seem to convince—the dried blood had cracked with the movement of his hand, and made the wound more serious than Diego thought it was. Already fresh blood was still seeping slowly from the cuts on his hand. At least he had plucked the white shards out of the gash._

_She didn't seem to believe him and pressed forward to inspect the wound more closely. Gingerly, she fingered it lightly with a cool hand. He flinched involuntarily and she looked up in concern. "I knew it. You're always playing these sort of things down, Mr Armando." She withdrew a long bandage from her carrying case as well as a bottle of antiseptic. Carefully, she applied the disinfectant. _

"_I _have_ washed the wound, you know." He tried not to flinch as stabbing pains shot up his flesh. A tingling feeling, only partly due to the antiseptic, was left lingering on his palm._

_Mia ignored him and proceeded to bandage the wound. "There."_

"_Ha…!" Diego chuckled as he looked at it. "It looks more serious than it was before."_

_His hand was a bandaged lump of white with some slightly red stains seeping out through the porous material. The blood hadn't actually soaked its way through—Mia had accidentally brushed the bandage across the cut prior to bandaging his hand. Now the injury looked like the sort of serious case that spurted blood from multiple stab wounds that formed large, hideous lacerations, wrapped under a thick wad of bandages that made his hand a moving snowball._

_He had gone through the day with concerned looks at his hand and a barrage of the usual question—"What did you do to it?" or variations thereof. To which he would merely shake his head and smile, thinking, _I didn't do anything to make it this serious. _Of course, he meant that it was Mia that made it seem worse than it actually was. Nevertheless, he kept the bandage longer than necessary. Not for _their_ concern. For hers. _

"Mr Armando…?" a guard peeked in. Godot looked up. "You have visitors."

It was then that three familiar faces edged their way in.

"Ha…!" he said at the sight of these figures. "Looks like I couldn't keep it from you after all."

"Did you seriously think you could?" a spiky-haired man asked. "Of course we would find out." All three people wore identical expressions on their faces—while Wright's tone was light, the sorrow showed as clearly on his face as the other two.

"So you really were disbarred, Wright." Godot took in the hobo outfit that the former attorney was wearing.

Phoenix looked away. "…Yeah."

The black-haired girl that stood beside Phoenix finally spoke after a uncharacteristic period of silence. "You heard about it, Mr Armando?" she asked with a serious expression on her face. He supposed he couldn't expect her to be happy—at the trial, when his crime was revealed, her eyes had filled with tears.

Godot nodded in response. There was a silence punctuated only by a gulp as he drank more coffee. "I won't be hanged. It'll be the electric chair," he said almost casually. _And then I'll be able to see her again. _His throat clogged up.

Though he wouldn't admit it to himself, he was not as cool as he pretended to be. The prospect of death still frightened him, and he cursed his own cowardly thoughts. But given the chance, he would still choose to plead guilty a million times over rather than walk free. For one thing, he had to pay for his crimes—he had killed. Not just anyone, but Misty Fey, the woman who had brought _Mia_ in this world. For another, he was sure he would die anyway if he didn't see Mia again. Not some ghostly phantom brought about by his sorrows in his dreams, nor a channeled spirit brought back from the ether, but her in her entirety, be it in life or in death.

The remaining visitor, a girl dressed in pink, finally spoke with a throbbing and teary voice. "Mr Godot!" she blubbered. "Why did you just sent to jail? You didn't do a-anything wrong!" With a thin arm, she endeavored to wipe her tears from her dirty face.

Godot smirked, glad that his visor hid the emotions that danced in his eyes. "I killed, Pearl. And that was wrong."

"But you were only protecting Mystic Maya!" she maintained, tears seeping over her hands.

"No matter the circumstances, I took another life." He looked to the side. "And there is no excuse for that."

Wright bowed his head. "She said it would free you in a way that had nothing to do with life or death."

Godot's heart stood still and his breathing grew uneven. "Mia… said that?"

There was no response.

"She was right. It's true. You don't have to worry about it. It's only the truth—I did wrong and I am being punished. Voluntarily," he said, wondering if his emotions showed on his face or in his voice, both of which he struggled to keep as impassive as he could.

The party of three didn't know what to say.

Godot cocked his head and grinned. "A lawyer is someone who smiles, no matter how bad it gets. You should know that, Wright," he said, for the shabbily dressed man wore a painful expression on his countenance. His formal rival stared straight at him.

"I think we can make an exception."

Godot chugged more coffee down, enjoying the bitter taste it left in his mouth. "Well, you've seen me for the last time, I think. It's time for you to leave. You can't watch me on the electric chair, and I don't think that would be very good in any case."

And then, without another word, he left with the warden, an empty mug of coffee in his hand, heedless of the cries that chased after his shadow.

_When he first met her she had eyed him with annoyance at his cocky attitude._

_The second time he saw her he endeavored to force a blush out of her pale countenance._

_By their third encounter, it was determined that they would be working together. By then, a firm relationship had been established—the egotistical, teasing Diego, and the angry, unwilling Mia._

_He didn't give up._

_She didn't yield._

_At her first trial he knew what love truly was. At her first trial he knew what hate truly was. At her first trial he knew what sorrow truly was._

_In weeks that followed he had stayed by her side, and, having been watching her carefully, noticed that her vehement refusals weren't quite as vicious as they once were, that her flushes of anger could occasionally turn into a pleasant blush._

_A month passed and he went with her to dinner. Soon, it was common knowledge that they were an item._

_And the months before that fateful day was easily the best time of his life._

_Then the day, August 27__th__, came and he met the demoness once more. As Mia was on her way up, he was on his way down. He hit the ground and the last things he saw was a smirk and the sight of his lover racing towards him, looking as though her heart might break. His own broke at her expression and he longed to reach out, to beg her to stop the river of tears that flowed down her face. And so he succumbed to unconsciousness with the bitter taste of tainted coffee in his mouth._

_Dark._

_Then he woke and he wasn't sure he was alive anymore._

_He killed._

_He died._

It wasn't the electricity that warmed his heart to content. It wasn't the relief of being free from the chains of life that filled his being with happiness. It wasn't the final satisfaction of having beaten Dahlia that earned himself the joy he was now experiencing.

It was the thought that kept him going for years.

It was the wish that kept him in suspense since he woke.

It was the dream he kept on having every single night, and every single day.

The sole person he revolved around. The woman he had loved till his heart had ached with happiness and longing. The individual that had gave him the realization that life had only really begun when he'd met her.

_Mia…_

That was his life.

A/N Slightly shorter than my last fic, bar the author's notes, which are desperately long. I enjoyed writing the bits with Diego-Mia interaction, but disliked the writing for his waking up and meeting Redd White, though I liked the idea. The parts with Phoenix were… fine, I suppose. The last bit of _italics_ (not the "Mia…" last bit, duh.) was quite random and didn't really fit in, but good as a standalone. There were actually some other scenes I wanted to write, but couldn't fit in. E.g. the last bit of T&T (yes, yet another trial transcription), a scene involving humorous interaction between many, many characters (I'll save that for a more light-hearted story) and other Miego bits. 

You wouldn't believe how much I've edited this though, in an attempt to make it flow more smoothly. As I stated in my last story, reviews are well appreciated, but no flames (just constructive criticism). Also, favorites and author alerts are real nice, but nothing can outweigh a good review hinthint. I tried to highlight the differences between Diego and Godot—note the difference between the descriptions of coffee… though it was kinda lame. I also put a bit of Mia-Maya likeness in the story—how Mia looked to the side after Fawles' trial. Only a slight hint, but there it is. 

Oh yes, if you noticed, in the scene after the trial with Phoenix and Godot, there's one part where Godot "soon grew annoyed with the waiting". Get it? Ho ho ho. Also, I tried to add coffee metaphors and failed epically. Whoops. =.= And in the hospital scene, Godot broke the doctor's coffee mug after hearing of Mia's death. Gasp. I thought that was pretty awesome of him.

I congratulate those of you who have taken the time to read this story, and this long author's note. …Congrats.


End file.
